A Boys' Game
by H.J. Bender
Summary: Dave Rudabaugh is trapped in a one-sided, unhealthy relationship with Billy the Kid, but discovers an unlikely companion in the half-breed Indian he once hated. Slash. Young Guns II.
1. Chapter 1

_New Mexico, 1879_

Things had been better before, back when it was just him and Billy and Patrick, roaming the wide, empty lands between Silver City and San Bernardino, sleeping under the stars and getting drunk on tequila, stealing anything that wasn't nailed down, shooting at the sun or snakes or any bounty hunter who crossed their path. He had been free and wild and happy then, butting heads with The Kid and fighting for dominance over The Gang while Pat just looked on and shook his head as they rolled through the dirt and prickly brush like a couple of young weasels, wrestling and scratching and biting and laughing—Christ, laughing so loudly it was a wonder they didn't bring every desperado in the desert down on them.

They would call a truce after enough skin and hair had been displaced, when they'd ripped their clothes and covered them with snot and spit and blood. Then they would sit by the fire and talk about horse rustling and legends of lost gold, passing a bottle back and forth until Pat had fallen asleep. Then they'd sneak away, Billy and him, snickering like devils, into the darkness beyond the campfire. Sometimes they'd be kissing before they could put down the bedrolls, hungry and horny and impatient, emboldened by alcohol and crazy with lust, and they'd fall to the ground again, only now they were wrestling trousers and shirts instead of each other, kissing instead of biting, sighing instead of snarling. He liked to run his hands through Billy's soft blond hair and just stare down into those turquoise-blue eyes of his, stroke his smooth, hairless cheek, kiss him tenderly and whisper things that made Billy laugh and call him a flowery queer.

Dave would smile and pretend it didn't hurt when Billy said thoughtless things like that, but deep down inside, it did. It did because he loved Billy. For all of the shit they gave each other, for all of their snarling and bickering and scrapping, at the end of the day there was no soul in the world that Dave adored more than William H. Bonney, and he let it show when he laid him down like this, gently and tenderly, kissing the small hands whose fingers he'd weave with his own, nuzzling Billy's neck, even if it was sweaty and smelly and coated with dust; it was Billy, and he loved everything about him, even his stink.

And when Billy finally stopped giggling and yielded to Dave, wrapping his legs around the other man and moving his hips in time with Dave's thrusts, gasping drunkenly about how good he felt and how much he missed him, Dave could almost cry. Sometimes he did, seeing Billy underneath him like that, so hot and dangerous and beautiful. He wanted to spend the rest of his life with him, just like this, loving him under an open sky while the rest of the civilized world chased after them like the hounds of hell, running as fast as they could but never fast enough. Yes, Dave could live like this, as long as Billy was by his side.

But as time went on, he slowly began to realize that the scales of love were terribly unbalanced. Billy the Kid wasn't a faggot, as he declared often and proudly enough, and while Billy laughed and disappeared behind another bedroom door with another nameless whore in another nameless town, Dave would swallow down the blood from his hemorrhaging heart and go find a bottle of whiskey to drown himself in. It was plain to see that Billy was growing tired of him, refusing Dave's advances more and more, pushing him away if he tried to kiss him, belittling him in front of strangers, bossing him around, treating him like shit. Dave tried to play the tough man, laughing it off or smashing bottles or trying to muscle in on Billy's fame. Some days they couldn't talk to one another without screaming. Pat either didn't know or pretended not to know, but he kept his distance when the two were going at it. He knew better than to get between two pairs of cocked and loaded pistols.

But in spite of their disagreements and lovers' quarrels, Billy never sent Dave away. The truth was he needed a gang. He needed men he could lead around, men who admired him and would follow him and obey him. He needed to be in control, and Dave was the perfect follower. Even better, he was sentimental and easily manipulated, clay in Billy's hands.

To his credit, Dave did manage to tear himself away from Billy's magnetic field from time to time, clear his head a little, try to see things for what they were. It was during these moments that he thought about washing his hands of Billy once and for all, of heading back to Texas or rejoining his old Dodge City Gang in Las Vegas, but every time he began to take it seriously, Billy would come shuffling back, all shy eyes and hushed apologies, that Poor Little Boy act he always put on when he was trying to get his way with people who were wise to his tricks. And Dave fell for it every time.

It felt good for a while, the kisses and the touches and the way Billy pulled his hair and moaned his name as they rocked against each other, but afterward Dave would always curse himself for his weakness, his neediness, his shameful, unmanly feelings of attachment. And then, to prove that he wasn't a pathetic, mindless puppet, to prove that he was as man as Pat or Billy, he'd toss back half a dozen shots and make a show of taking a woman to bed, inevitably embarrassing himself when he couldn't get it up from either too much booze or a lack of desire—usually the latter. He'd pretend to pass out, the woman would leave, and Dave would spend the rest of the night praying for the dawn to come and deliver him from the pain of another night spent in Reality, USA.

Aside from these occasional gunshots to the heart, things were okay with the gang. As long as they kept thundering ahead, just out of reach of the law, whooping and hollering and firing their pistols like madmen, things would be all right. They could live forever, outlaws and legends, friends and lovers.

Then Billy got into that business with the governor of New Mexico, got himself into some serious shit and had to rescue two of his old Regulators from the gallows and a very nasty lynch mob. Dave got a .22 in the goddamn shoulder helping Billy save those worthless idiots, a long-haired, crazy-looking Mexican half-breed and a tender-footed city boy who was just _so_ much smarter than everyone else, some kind of highfalutin professor or something. Dave was not impressed.

Billy, naturally, was delighted to be reunited with Chavez and Doc, just _beside himself_, giggling about how glad he was to see them again, how they'd made a pact to be best pals forever and a lot of other horseshit that made Dave sick to his stomach. He had lashed out at the newcomers, insulting the redskin and almost starting a fight, and then Billy had stepped in and told him to back off, and Dave obeyed because he always did what Billy said. Christ, he was so _weak_.

With Billy's chums back in the picture and a critical need to reach Old Mexico before their two-timing old buddy, Pat Garrett, the new sheriff of Lincoln County, caught up to them, Dave was kicked to the side like a mangy old coyote, laughed at instead of laughed with, sided against instead of sided with. Nobody liked him anymore. Billy stuck up for his Regulators, Chavez loathed the dirt Dave walked on, Doc probably thought him too much of a peon to carry on a conversation, and the farmer and the Pennsylvania boy were too green to call friends. Dave was hurt. He was angry. But he also understood that these men were friends of Billy's, that they'd known him long before he had arrived in Billy's life, and that their devotion to each other meant a hell of a lot more than a few random fucks every month.

To Dave, who had given Billy his body, heart, and soul, this was the shittiest, most horrible, low-down thing he'd ever felt. To make matters worse, Billy seemed especially attentive of Doc, the poet with the soft voice and the long eyelashes. Dave's jealousy festered in his gut, and no matter how he acted in front of the Regulators, all tough and coy and wiseass, deep inside he hated them and wished they would go back to where they came from, especially that goddamn Mexican-Navajo-whatever the hell he was. Dave hated him most of all, that spiritual Injun shit he was always spewing, the way he'd get Billy to actually _listen to him_, the way Hendry and Tom just accepted him as if he wasn't a half-breed savage who was probably just waiting to kill them while they slept. Hell with them, let them get knifed. Dave would keep his eye on Chavez and his pistol ready, that was for damned sure.

Yes, things had been better back when it was just him and Billy and Patrick. But those days were long gone now and Dave was tired of feeling like all his friends had abandoned him. At no point did this sense of loneliness and betrayal truly hit home than after the incident at the Apache burial grounds.

He was just joking around, trying to piss off Chavez and get him all riled up, anything to provoke the savage's true nature, but he hadn't expected to be viciously attacked just for trying to make a few bucks off of some old bones. Chavez's rage had scared the bejesus out of Dave, but he drew his knife and fought back, ultimately putting his blade through the half-breed's arm. Amazingly, Chavez hadn't made a peep, but he used Dave's momentary shock to slash him good in the stomach. Dave had fallen back, gone for his pistol, and suddenly the rest of the gang had drawn iron on him, as if he were no different from that scumbag Pat Garrett.

He'd had no intention of shooting shoot Chavez. Injun or not, it wasn't fair to bring a gun to a knife fight, and Dave Rudabaugh appreciated the terms of fair play. He just didn't want that crazy son of a bitch taking another swipe at him, that's all. But to have the others—especially Billy—turn on him so quickly left Dave feeling a lot lower than he'd felt in a long time. But instead of skinning out, like he should have done when he had the chance, he stuck with the gang, unable to leave Billy and unwilling to believe that the love they'd once had was gone. Maybe Dave could make him remember. Maybe they still had a chance for things to work out. Maybe, he thought, there was still a little hope left at the bottom of the bottle.

* * *

><p>The gang was getting worried. And tired. Garrett and his men were riding them hard, giving them no chance to rest, eat, sleep—hell, they barely had enough time to take a piss before the posse was on them again—and their asses were so saddle-sore that they had taken to riding on their stirrups. Night and day they galloped over ridge and valley, gunshots echoing over their shoulders, bullets zipping through the dust clouds they left in their wake. Sometimes they managed to get ahead; other times they rode for their lives, hunkered down and returning fire, praying for a break. Pat knew all of Billy's tricks and hiding places, but the one thing he underestimated was the Kid's irrational, unpredictable, bonafide <em>insanity<em>.

As the boys were coming upon St Augustine Pass, Billy suddenly jerked the reins and started heading south, straight into the Organ Mountains, whooping like a crazed coyote. Doc was the first to chase after him, hollering about what the hell was he thinking, where was he going, he can't go in there, had he lost his goddamned mind! Chavez followed, Tom and Hendry spurred their horses after Chavez, and Dave, always the straggler, was once again left to catch up. It wasn't until dusk fell and they came upon a mountain spring that Billy finally explained himself, grinning like a fox as he stripped off his dusty, sweaty clothes.

"Garrett's probably in Las Cruces by now, wonderin' how the hell he lost us between ten miles of wide open desert, huh huh!" he chuckled. "We can hide in these here mountains for a while, rest up a bit and head south with the cliffs coverin' us. There's plenty a water and game, and by the time those bozos finally figure out how they lost us, we'll be outta this range and onto the Mexican Blackbird!"

Chavez, Hendry and Tom were already swimming in the rocky pool at the bottom of the waterfall, grateful for the cold mountain water cascading onto their heads. Doc, however, still had some concerns to chew over with Billy, who wasn't the least bit worried that he might have underestimated Garrett's men or that the pissed-off posse could be gunning for them at this very moment. He shrugged off Doc's grim predictions, called him a worry wart, and jumped into the water. With a heavy sigh, Doc turned away and went to look for some firewood.

Dave couldn't have been happier to see the tenderfoot leave, and quickly finished peeling off the rest of his clothes, wincing a little at the stiffness in his left arm. There was still an ugly scab on his shoulder from the bullet he'd taken a couple weeks ago, and sometimes the pain went all the way down to his elbow. Oh well. Another scar, another story.

He plunged into the river and swam over to the rest of the boys, who were in much better spirits now that they had some time to relax and unwind. Even Chavez was smiling, combing his fingers through his long black hair as he listened to Billy regale Tom and Hendry with stories of great chases across the desert, just like theirs, and how the outlaws always succeeded in outwitting the buffoons chasing them. Dave smiled too, gazing at the animated way Billy narrated his tales, eyes glinting brightly, his grin never fading, his voice happy and loud. It was the way he used to talk, the Old Billy, the Billy that didn't ignore Dave or reject his advances. The Billy that Dave would always love.

The night began to deepen and one by one the boys crawled out of the water to shake themselves dry—all but Billy, who had spent more time flapping his jaw than getting clean. He took the opportunity now, standing waist-deep in the water under the falls, craning his neck back and opening his mouth, his hair plastered to his head and his manner finally calm and peaceful. The very moment Dave had been waiting for.

He approached from the side—Billy didn't like being surprised from behind—and gently laid a hand on the slim shoulder. "Hey," he said with a soft grin, ducking his head close to Billy's ear, his voice barely audible above the rushing water.

"Hey yourself," Billy smirked, and Dave took that as a sign he was feeling receptive tonight. He slipped behind him and placed his hands on the narrow hips, leaning close, pressing his chest to Billy's back.

"We're alone, ya know," he said, his hands sliding up Billy's wet stomach and back down again. He nuzzled a kiss against Billy's neck, his lips warm despite the coldness of the water.

"Aw, c'mon, Dave," Billy groaned, pulling away. "I thought I told you I wasn't doin' this no more."

Dave stood under the waterfall, silent and rejected. Yeah, Billy had told him he wasn't doing this no more. But Billy said a lot of things he didn't mean. Dave had hoped this was one of them.

"But," he started quietly, "what about all that time we . . . Don't I mean nothin' to you no more?"

Billy rolled his eyes. "For Christ's sake, Dave, don't get all sentimental on me. You and I both knew it was just a boys' game we was playin'. It was fun and all—I 'preciate your company, it was real nice—but it ain't no way to live. I like the ladies, ya know? I ain't no rope-sucker. One a these days, not now, but maybe someday, I'm gonna find me a nice gal, a real woman with long blonde hair and big green eyes, and I'm gonna settle down and raise a buncha little Billy Juniors with her. And if you knew any better, you'd wise up and do the same. They hang men like you in Santa Fe, Dave."

"They hang men like you too, Billy. We're outlaws, remember?"

"You know what I mean. There ain't no place for queers in the wild west." Billy looked away uncomfortably. "I think it'd be best if we just forget ev—"

Dave moved forward and clasped Billy's small hands in his own. His eyes were sad and desperate as he stared at Billy's face and said, "But I love you. I always loved you, even before we was . . . I just . . . Shit, Billy, please don't do this. I'm beggin' ya."

Billy pulled his slippery hands from Dave's grasp. "It's for our own good. Yours especially, Dave. I ain't gonna talk about this no more—it's settled." He paused, looking down at the water. "Go on now, you best be gettin' back with the others."

So that was it. They were through. Really, truly over. No forevers, no more nights sleeping in each other's arms, no staring up at the stars with their heads together, listening to coyotes sing to the desert. It was over. They were finished.

The pressure that had gripped Dave's heart now rose to his throat, clogging his nose and bringing tears to his eyes. His cheeks burned with shame, but it was sorrow that had lit the fire. He licked his lips as two tears spilled down his face. "Can . . . can I at least kiss you one last time?"

"Goddammit, Dave, I said I wasn't gonna—"

As quick as a rattlesnake, Dave darted forward and pressed his lips against Billy's, cutting him off before he could finish his sentence, one last, desperate attempt to change his mind. He couldn't let it end like this, not without a token memory, not without feeling that soft, sweet mouth against his own, that magic kiss that would change Billy's mind and make him remember how much he—

Billy clenched his fist, hauled off, and punched Dave in the mouth. Dave stumbled backward and toppled into the water, surfacing a moment later with a gasp. He stood shakily, touching his fingers to his bleeding nose and busted lip. Everything from his nostrils down was dripping bright red. He looked up at Billy, his eyes reflecting more hurt and confusion than any man's could possibly hold. After a few long, wordless moments, he numbly turned away and waded toward the shore.

Billy watched him stumble out of the water, gather his clothes, and disappear behind the rocks. He sighed, shaking out his smarting hand. It was better this way, he thought. Better he be the one to cure Dave of his deviant ways than some merciless judge in Santa Fe. Of course, if they didn't make it to Old Mexico soon, they were all destined for the noose. But Billy would rather be hanged for being an outlaw than a faggot. Any man in his right mind should feel the same, including Dave. That poor devil. Did he actually think he could love Billy forever and ever, just like a man loved a woman? Only an idiot or a lovesick fool would be so naïve.

Confident that he'd done the right thing, Billy finished washing and dragged himself out of the pool, heading toward the warmth of the campfire and the company of his old pals.

* * *

><p>Chavez sat out in the darkness, his keen eyes watching the cliffs and the valley below for any signs of Garrett's men. Suddenly there came the snapping and rustling of someone plowing through the brush, and he turned in time to see Dave Rudabaugh step into the rocky clearing. He was only half-dressed, his hair wet and his face bleeding; when he looked up and saw Chavez staring at him, he immediately straightened up.<p>

"Oh. Sorry," he stammered, wiping his nose on his sleeve. "Didn't know this area was claimed. I'll, uh, go somewhere el—"

"You're bleeding."

Dave sniffed. "Yeah. I fell."

"And you're crying."

"It hurt."

Chavez narrowed his dark eyes. "No fall can hurt _that_ much."

Dave shut his mouth, his shiny red lips trembling, unable to speak.

"Come here," said Chavez, and Dave, who was used to following orders, did just that, even though Chavez was a good-for-nothing Injun who had no reason not to scalp him like a goddamn prairie dog. But, truth be told, Dave didn't have the energy to hate anyone other than himself right now.

He sat down beside Chavez and rubbed his aching, bleeding nose.

"Stop doing that," the Mexican-Indian chided, reaching out to take Dave's white face in his warm brown hands. "You're making it worse."

"What'm I s'posed to do then, just bleed all over the place?"

"Use a handkerchief, _pendejo_," Chavez muttered, pulling a red paisley bandanna from his pocket and using it to gently wipe the blood from Dave's upper lip.

It was the tenderness of the gesture, as well as the way Chavez brushed the wet strands of hair out of Dave's eyes, that caused the outlaw to look at the Indian—_really_ look at him—and suddenly wonder why he was being so nice to a jackass cracker like him.

"So what happened?" Chavez asked flatly, reaching for his canteen and splashing some water onto the bandanna.

"You want the truth?"

"What good is a lie?"

Dave sighed, sitting still as Chavez cleaned the blood from his face with the wet bandanna. "Billy . . . him and me, we was lovers." He waited for a reaction and was surprised when Chavez didn't even blink. "_Well_? Ain't you gonna say somethin'?"

"Like what?"

"Hell, I dunno! What a faggot I am, maybe? What kinda sick and disgustin' sack a shit would lay with another man? I'm sure you got some Navie-ho word for what I am."

"I can think of at least ten Navajo words to describe what you are, Dave Rudabaugh, but they all concern your character, not your choice of partners." Pause. "You still haven't told me what happened."

"He punched me."

"Billy? Why?"

"'Cause I wanted to be with him." Christ, he couldn't believe he was saying this, and to _Chavez_ of all people. But he couldn't stop—the words just kept coming, rushing out of him like a flood. "'Cause I love him. But he don't love me, and he sure as hell don't wanna be with me no more. I kissed him and he punched me, and now we're officially through with each other, ya happy?"

Chavez stopped cleaning Dave's face and stared at him with those black eyes of his. But, oddly, there was nothing menacing about them at all. If anything, they seemed almost sympathetic. "He broke your heart."

Dave didn't know why, but the tears were suddenly flooding back into his eyes again. "Yeah. Yeah, he broke my fuckin' heart, are you done yet? Can I go?"

Quietly, in that smooth, even voice of his, Chavez murmured, "He didn't deserve you, Dave. You're too good for him."

Dave blinked. Had he heard right? _Billy_ was the man who had everything going for him—_he_ was the strong one, the leader, the straight-arrow, the woman-lover, the _normal_ one. Dave was the nobody from Arkansas, left orphaned after his father was killed in the Civil War and his mother died of syphilis after whoring herself to make ends meet. _Dave_ was the fame-hungry fool who thought he could make a name for himself robbing trains and stagecoaches and exaggerating the number people he'd supposedly killed. _Dave_ was the queer, the faggot, the weak one, the lily-livered polecat who hid behind his pistols and his whiskey and pretended to be "one of the boys". How in the _hell_ did that make him better than _Billy the Kid_?

"I've ridden with Billy a long time," said Chavez slowly. "He's a good friend, he's got a good heart, but he'll always be a child. He's selfish and vain and he hurts people without realizing, sometimes without even caring. You can love him all you want, Dave, but don't expect him to love you back. He'll always love himself more than anyone else."

Dave wiped his eyes on his bloodstained sleeve. That made sense. Shit, that made more sense than anything he'd ever heard, and the simplicity of it all filled him with an overwhelming sense of relief. It wasn't his fault. Billy was just different from him, incompatible. Incompatible because Billy liked women and Dave didn't. Maybe Chavez had an explanation for that, too.

"Why . . . why am I like this?" he asked haltingly, avoiding the half-breed's eyes. "Why can't . . . I just wanna be normal. Ain't there some way to fix me?"

Chavez smiled slightly. "There's nothing wrong with you, Dave. All spirits are born the same, and they're the same on the Other Side, too. But this world, the realm of man, is complicated and confusing, and people will always fear those who are different from them, whether it's for the color of their skin or who they choose to love."

Dave winced momentarily, his face warming as he recalled how many times he'd ridiculed Indians, Mexicans, Chinese, anyone who wasn't of his own color or creed. In light of his own glaring hypocrisy, he felt like complete shit.

"But in the spirit world," continued Chavez, "though each spirit is unique, we are all alike in beauty. There are no colors to divide us, no sex to hold us back from those who we love, no wealth or status or age. We are all equals, and we are all free."

Dave smiled with half of his mouth. "Sounds like a pretty nice place. Maybe I oughta throw myself in front of a bullet tomorrow."

"Your time will come, but that's not for you to decide. Life is beautiful, and meant to be lived."

Dave heaved a heavy sigh and raked a hand through his damp hair. "I need a drink."

"No, you need a friend."

"You volunteerin'? 'Cause I'm pretty broke for friends these days."

Chavez smiled and handed the bandanna to Dave. "I am friends with anyone who would call me his friend," he said. "And my ear is always open to those who want to use it."

Dave raised his head and gazed at the redskin—no, the man, his friend Chavez—and felt the cracks in his heart begin to disappear.

Above their heads, the stars sparkled like diamonds against the velvety, blue-black expanse of the silent desert sky.

* * *

><p><em>In order to make this story compliant with FFN's T rating, certain content has been edited. To read the unabridged version of this story (with visuals), please visit my profile page, where I've posted the link under my Extras section. Thank you! -HJB<br>_


	2. Chapter 2

Riding through the Organ Mountains wasn't as easy as Billy had made it sound. The horses stumbled on the steep slopes and loose gravel, forcing the outlaws to dismount and lead their steeds on foot through the treacherous gullies and canyons. The air was still and hot, eerily quiet, the tall cliffs glaring down at them, forming a prison of stone whose walls seemed to twist and turn like the mazes of a labyrinth. There was water, yes, and there were enough rabbits to keep them comfortably fed, but the way was difficult and they made poor time—less than ten miles in one day. To make matters worse, Doc said that they were running low on supplies: whiskey, matches, flatbread, and most importantly, ammunition.

Predictably, Billy laughed it off around the fire that night, saying that as long as they had Chavez's wilderness skills and a steady supply of game, they were as good as golden. Then he took one of the spits off the fire and waved it around, making the roasted rabbit on it dance a jig and sing a song about its burnt balls in a squeaky, high-pitched voice. Even Dave, who had a scab forming on his upper lip from Billy's punch the night before, laughed at the show with the others. Yeah, The Kid might not be the most mature or selfless man in the world, but he sure knew how to lift a fellow's spirits when he was down. His children, if he lived long enough to have any, were going to have a hell of a father.

Thinking about Billy and offspring brought on a compulsive urge to drink; Dave reached for the bottle sitting by Hendry but was stopped by a canteen suddenly appearing in front of his face. He looked to his left, where Chavez sat, holding out the offering.

"The mountain water is pure and clean," he said encouragingly. "Your body will thank you for it."

Dave made a pathetic, pleading expression, but Chavez didn't budge. With a defeated sigh, he took the canteen from the Indian and raised it to his lips. The water was certainly cool and refreshing, better than he thought it'd taste. Still, it wasn't whiskey . . . but with that split lip of his, drinking anything stronger than tea would probably hurt like a sonofabitch. Maybe water wasn't such a bad idea for now.

He tossed back another gulp before handing the canteen back to Chavez with a thankful nod. The Indian replied with a curt nod of his own.

There wasn't much talk after dinner; they were all tired, all anxious, all ready to get out of these godforsaken mountains and back to the red dust of the valley floor. They laid their bedrolls in a circle around the fire and tried to sleep as best as they could in the cold, dry air. Tom was young enough that he could get away with nestling against Hendry's side, and Hendry, who always seemed like a bit of a softie, put his arm around the boy and held him close. A few more years' difference in their ages, maybe, and they could pass for father and son. Both of them had lost their families, so it seemed natural that they would gravitate toward one another, if only out of a mutual understanding for each other's loss. Billy and Doc slept back to back, Doc's arm tucked under his blond head, Billy with his hat tilted over the side his face.

Chavez lay on his back, apart from the others, his knife clasped to his chest and his eyes closed. Dave couldn't tell if he was sleeping or just lying still, but he sure as hell wasn't going to disturb him. He tried to get settled as quietly as he could, but these goddamn rocks kept sticking in his back and the fire was cooking him on one side while the shadows froze him on the other, and he couldn't lie on his left side because of that wound in his shoulder. He turned, he rolled, he fidgeted, he counted sheep and horses and steer and all manner of livestock, but he couldn't sleep.

After an hour of failed attempts, he finally dragged himself up and stumbled off to take a piss. He found a tall rock not too far away and ducked behind it, relieved himself, and then started back in the pitch dark. On the way, his boot got wedged between two rocks and he tripped, almost falling flat on his face. He landed on his hands, skinning them on the sharp gravel, and barked out a salty curse. He wrenched his foot free and hobbled onward, his ankle throbbing like a bastard, feeling more awake than ever.

When he returned to the clearing, he wasn't surprised to see Chavez sitting upright while the others snored softly, sound asleep; no doubt the Indian had heard all the noise he'd made, like breathing and blinking and whatnot.

"Everything alright?" he asked as Dave limped to his bedroll and sat down.

"Fine," came the clipped reply. "Just gettin' some air, bustin' my ass on these sonofabitchin' rocks. You?"

"Can't sleep."

"Well, that's one thing you and me got in common, _amigo_," sighed Dave, raking his hair out of his eyes.

Across the fire, Billy let out a sleepy mumble and rolled over, pressing himself against the curve of Doc's back and slipping his arm around his waist. Dave watched with a hollow, gutted look and swallowed thickly, almost as if he were going to burst into tears at any second. Chavez glanced at Dave, then at Billy, then back at Dave.

"Do you want to hold me?" he asked quietly.

Dave flinched as if he'd just been slapped. "_What_?"

"Hold me. You can if you want, if it'll help you sleep. Or I can hold you if you—"

"I don't wanna hold nobody!" Dave hissed, roses suddenly appearing on his cheeks. "And I don't want nobody to hold me, Christ Jesus Almighty! I don't sleep with Mex . . . with Ind . . . with nobody no more, alright?"

Chavez stared, his gaze even and unwavering, until Dave finally turned away and lay down without another word. He forced himself not to move, to pretend he'd fallen asleep even after he heard Chavez settle in. He grimaced and twitched, trying to get at least a _little_ comfortable, no matter how useless it seemed. His front was warm, thanks to the fire, but his back was as cold as ice. He couldn't turn over and lay on his left side on account of his shoulder, so he might as well let it go—this was obviously as good as it was going to get.

After about an hour or so, he was actually beginning to drift off when he felt movement behind him. He raised his head drowsily as something warm pressed against his back and a familiar smell came to him—hair and leather and horse, and something musky and exotic.

"Chavez, the hell . . ." he started to mumble, but was abruptly cut off:

"Sh," the Indian whispered, lying down behind Dave. "This is a dream. Go back to sleep."

"The hell you say, Pow-Wow, get . . . get offa me 'fore I . . ." But his protests faded as the pleasantness of Chavez's body heat began to lure him back into a semi-asleep state. "Don't wanna . . . hafta shoot ya . . ." Then he closed his eyes and was gone.

Chavez felt Dave's breathing relax and even out against his chest, smelled the oily, leathery scent of the white man's hair and the tang of old sweat in his clothes, so different from his own. But they were not unpleasant odors, nor was the contact unwelcome. Lying so close to another person soothed Chavez's restless spirit, calmed his pensive mind, and soon lulled his eyes closed.

Warmed and comforted, each in his own way, the two outlaws slept peacefully through the night.

* * *

><p>In the morning Dave awoke with a smile, a contented sigh, and an erection hard enough to crack granite.<p>

"God_dammit_," he groaned under his breath, pulling away from Chavez's warm body and scrambling to his feet. The sky was just beginning to lighten as he located his pissing rock from last night and hid behind it, hastily unbuttoning his trousers and letting himself breathe. He had hoped it was the urgent need to piss that was responsible for his condition, but judging from his racing pulse and the warm feeling in his belly, it was apparent that he owed his stiffness to arousal, not a full bladder.

"Shit," he whispered, leaning back against the rock. Maybe if he just waited a few minutes it would go away . . .

. . . But he kind of liked how it felt. And it had been a while since the last time he'd . . . Well, if he made it quick, and if he was quiet . . .

He spat in his palm and wrapped his moistened hand around himself. A sigh rushed out of him—damn, that felt good. That felt really good.

Running his tongue along his lips, Dave let his eyes fall half-closed, imagining Billy and yet trying _not_ to imagine Billy. He tried to put himself somewhere safe, a man's faceless body, all the features that turned him on: nice hands, firm ass, smooth chest, dark hair—no, fair hair, blond hair, perfectly _golden_ hair and blue eyes, wet lips, pink tongue, bronze skin—no, white skin, _white_, white as milk, white as (red as) sand, honey-brown—no, stop—Billy (Chavez) Kid white Indian Chavez Billy—

Dave grunted helplessly as his mind's eyes was assaulted by flashing images: a strange man, half-Billy and half-Chavez, two naked bodies thrusting against one another, one strong, the other yielding. Dave saw his own face, the ecstasy on it, his body trapped beneath one much more powerful than his, much darker.

With the mutant, calico face of Billvez in his mind, Dave shuddered and climaxed. Then his bones turned to jelly and he sank against the rock, panting for breath, wondering what the hell had just happened. It had been great, whatever it was, even though it left him feeling confused and slightly disgusted with himself. He didn't know what was worse, getting off thinking about Billy or thinking about Chavez. Neither one was healthy, at least as far as Dave could see.

He put it out of his mind, buttoned his trousers, and returned to the smoldering campfire. The rest of the gang was awake now, stretching and scratching and yawning and shaking off their sleepiness with splashes of water on their faces. Chavez was rolling up his pallet—he'd already taken care of Dave's, tying it neatly and leaving it sitting where he would find it. The last thing Dave wanted to do was get anywhere near the Indian right now, but he didn't want to be a jackass to the only halfway-friend he had, so he sauntered over and kneeled down, gathering up his hat, his gun belt, and his bedroll.

"Thanks," he whispered secretively, as if afraid that someone might hear him being polite. "For this. And, uh, last night. It was, uh . . . well, thanks."

Chavez looked up with a faint smile and nodded, and Dave had to drag his eyes away from the long curtain of shiny black hair spilling over Chavez's shoulder, but not before the Indian noticed his wandering gaze. Feeling ashamed for being caught looking, especially now that Chavez knew his game, knew exactly the type of man he was, Dave shoved his hat onto his head and stood up, making himself scarce.

In a half hour's time, they were saddled up and on their way again. The going was easier now, less treacherous as they slowly made their way down the mountain chain and toward the open desert, the only thing that lay between them and Old Mexico. But it was open desert. Thirty miles of it. No one was jumping for joy at the idea of crossing it, especially if Garrett's posse were to catch up to them. There was no place to hide, only one way to run, and if they got pinned down in a shootout, they'd be out of ammo in ten minutes. They were in piss-poor shape and they all knew it. But, as usual, Billy silenced their fears and reassured his gang that the Mexican Blackbird—not too far away, he could practically see it from here—would lead them to safety. Then the only thing they'd have to worry about is learning Spanish.

"Except you, Chavez," Billy said with a grin. "Maybe you can teach us dumb _gringos_ a thing or two, huh?"

"I'm not a miracle-worker, _chivato_."

Billy just laughed and spurred his horse forward, yipping cheerfully while Doc sighed and Hendry took up whistling _Red River Valley_ to fill the silence he left behind.

Feeling gutsy and more than a little bored, Dave urged his mount into a trot until it came up alongside Chavez. "So, uh, I guess you speak Mexican pretty good, huh?" he asked awkwardly, lowering his hat against the sun reflecting off the bald, rocky cliffs.

"Not as well as my mother's tongue," said Chavez. "My father died when I was a boy. After that, my mother returned to the reservation, and I grew up speaking Navajo."

"Oh. Well, that's, uh, pretty impressive—the language thing, I mean. So you know, what, three?"

"Four. The nearby trading post was French-owned, so I know a little of that. What about you?"

Dave looked surprised to have an inquiry directed toward him. "Me?"

"Yeah. Do you know any other tongue? Aside from bad English?" Chavez smirked to show that he was just joking, but it didn't help alleviate Dave's embarrassment.

"Uh, no, actually. I, uh . . . well, my pa's folks came over here from Germany, but they was dead before I was born, and my ma was a local gal, so uh . . . no, not really."

"I didn't know Rudabaugh was a German name."

"Actually, my real name's Rothenburg."

"Rothenburg? Really?"

"Yep. David James Rothenburg, christened and baptized. It got to be a mouthful after a while, and it sure as hell ain't a good outlaw name, so I changed it when I came west. The rest a my name changed later."

"That's too bad. I think David James Rothenburg is a good name."

"Yeah, well, so did my ma, but she ain't here no more, so I'll call myself whatever I damn please."

Chavez shrugged. "Your choice . . . What does Rothenburg mean?"

"Damned if I know. Prob'ly 'rotten bastard' or somethin'."

Chavez chuckled, causing Dave to grin as well. It felt good, laughing with somebody again, not being the butt of the joke or the one man left out. Dave couldn't remember the last time he'd had decent conversation with someone. Billy had never been the "conversing" type, and he'd certainly never asked about Dave's family. It was as if he hadn't really wanted to know anything about Dave at all, other than how many trains he'd robbed or people he'd shot. Reputations were what counted with Billy, and those were sometimes as false as the names of the men that owned them. Maybe Billy had never really cared about David James Rothenburg—just Arkansas Dave Rudabaugh of the Dodge City Gang.

Pushing the unpleasant thoughts of Billy from his mind, Dave said gently, "So, uh, your mother was Navajo, huh? Full-blooded or . . . ?"

"Full-blooded Navajo, yes. My mother's mother was a spiritual leader in our tribe . . ."

Dave found that the day passed much more quickly in the company of friends. Chavez talked about his family, the massacre at the Red Sands Creek Reservation, and how John Tunstall had taken him in and soothed his anger with kindness. He told Dave about the Regulators, Tunstall's murder, the Lincoln County War, and how he'd come to find himself in a pit with Doc Scurlock just a few weeks ago. For a man of only twenty-eight years, Chavez had seen a lot of suffering and bloodshed, and his reasons for turning outlaw seemed much nobler than Dave's . . . if there was such a thing as a noble reason for becoming a criminal.

Keeping up the casual banter, Dave explained how he started his career rustling cattle in Arkansas, and how he eventually ended up in Las Vegas, New Mexico, where he met Billy at the Center Street Saloon one fateful day. Most men who met The Kid either wanted to kill him or be him; in Dave's case, it was the latter, even though Billy was a full six years younger and walloped him in a humiliating game of poker in front of his own gang. But the fire of admiration had already been lit, and that same day, Dave abandoned his gang to follow Billy to Fort Sumner, where they met up with Pat Garrett and started working the cattle trail. Several months and one bungled pardon later, here they were, running from the backstabbing traitor who used to be their friend.

"I guess every man's got a price," Dave muttered glumly.

"Only if his ambition is stronger than his loyalty," said Chavez.

"S'pose I best choose my friends wisely then, huh?"

"Sometimes you can't help it—your friends choose you."

"Well, maybe _they_ should choose more wisely."

Chavez grinned.

The sun disappeared behind a wall of dark, steadily-building clouds. Thunder rumbled in the distance, but with the dry, hot days of summer already in full swing, there wasn't going to be much rain. Before too long the mountainous terrain gave way to foothills, and the sprawling red desert lay before the travel-weary outlaws like a welcome mat to Old Mexico. They stopped one last time to refill their canteens and skins, knowing that water would be scarce between here and the next town.

"I need to take a look around," announced Billy. "Make sure we're headin' in the right direction. Hey, Tom, last one up that hill yonder is a three-legged dog!"

The two youngest members of the gang galloped up to the nearby bluff, leaving the other four to await their return. Doc seemed especially anxious, as Chavez was quick to notice.

"What troubles you?" he asked in a low, quiet voice.

"I dunno," answered Doc, his reply shadowed by a roll of thunder. The breeze kicked up, disheveling his already unkempt hair. He kept looking around himself worriedly. "Something just doesn't feel right. Billy is supposed to trust us, but he hasn't told us a damn thing about this secret trail of his. I just . . . I don't like being kept in the dark like this, Chavez. He's not telling us something—I know him. He's holding back."

"Why don't you ask him about it when he—"

Gunshots exploded through the hills, mixed with wild shouts and a horse's terrified whinny. The four outlaws started and reached for their weapons, their steeds bumping into one another excitedly.

"What is it?" Hendry yelled. "Who's shootin'?"

They all turned at the sound of pounding hooves: Billy was hunched low in his saddle, riding at full speed down the hill. His face was twisted with disbelief.

"It's Garrett!" he shouted. "Son of a bitch shot Tom! Skin out now, he's comin' for us!"

He didn't have to say it twice; Doc, Chavez, Dave and Hendry put the spurs to their horses and raced off in a cloud of dust and curses. More gunshots rang out from behind, causing them to barrel ahead even faster. They thundered out of the foothills like banshees, glancing over their shoulders and wondering why Garrett's men weren't following. The reason was learned soon enough: just as they touched the valley floor, the whole posse rose up from behind the flanking hills and opened fire.

It was an ambush. One man had flushed them out while the others were lying in wait.

They were going to be slaughtered.

Billy raced through the gauntlet like a blur, returning fire and somehow making it through the deadly hail and out into the open desert. Doc caught a bullet in his right forearm and another went through the skin on the back of his neck. Hendry was hit in the chest twice before a shot to the head knocked him from his horse. He was dead before he hit the ground. Chavez made it through unscathed, shielded from the flying lead by Hendry's body.

Dave was the last one to pass, a bullet tearing through his hat and another through his coat as he went. He laughed in disbelief at his own survival, then a rifleman opened fire half a second too soon—the shot went into the horse's neck instead of Dave, severing the main artery and causing the animal to topple onto its side with Dave still in the saddle. One thousand pounds of stallion landed on his right leg, and it was a miracle the bone didn't shatter. The horse rolled in one direction while Dave tumbled in another, a cloud of dust billowing up and offering momentary cover. He pulled himself to his feet and heard Garrett's men open fire in his direction. He immediately dropped down again.

It sounded like a shooting gallery, the whole goddamned Union Army at the Battle of Gettysburg. Bullets swished past Dave's face and over his shoulder, some of the shots finding his mortally-wounded horse as it lay kicking and squealing on the ground. The rest of the gang was nowhere to be seen. They had left Dave, left him out here in the open, a sitting duck, to get shot up by these bastards. They had left him to die. Billy had left him to die.

_This is it_, he thought numbly. _I'm finished._

He crawled over to his dying horse and pulled his shotgun from the saddle holster, cocking it determinedly. Well, if he was going down, it might as well be in blazing glory.

Just as he was about to jump up and start blasting, there came a whinny and galloping hooves. Someone was coming back for him!

Chavez suddenly appeared through the dust and the gunfire, his horse jumping at every report. "Dave!" he yelled, searching for the outlaw as he dodged the bullets ripping past him. "David!"

Dave dropped his shotgun, dragged himself up, and charged at full speed toward Chavez, who leaned down to offer his arm. Dave grabbed hold and swung up onto the horse as best as he could with his sore leg; he slipped and started to fall sideways, but Chavez reached behind and held him steady. They tore out of there like a whirlwind, the shooting fading behind them as they rode out of firing range.

They thundered onward in silence; Dave sighed and sank against Chavez's back, all that long black hair licking his face and the smell of sweat and adrenaline thick in his nostrils. He was shaking, his heart pounding, his whole body as cold as ice—he had thought he was a-goner, but Chavez had come back for him. The Injun, the redskin, the half-breed Mexican who didn't owe him a goddamned thing, had come back for him.

The horse stumbled down into a rocky ditch, and Dave wrapped his arms around Chavez's waist to keep from falling off. He didn't let go even after the ground had evened out—any man brave enough to return to that massacre back there, who would face a hundred flying bullets, who thought that Dave's filthy outlaw hide was worth saving, was a man he was going to hold onto for a long time.

* * *

><p><em><strong>The More You Know...<strong>_

_-The historical Dave Rudabaugh's family name is actually Rodenbaugh, and supposedly of Germanic origin. "Rothenburg" is an alternate spelling of that name._  
><em>-Dave's middle name of "James" is 100% made up.<em>  
><em>-With the exception of a few details, the information presented about Dave's migration across the U.S. is, to the best of my knowledge, historically accurate.<em>_  
><em>


	3. Chapter 3

It was nearly dusk before they finally stopped at a dried-up, moldering village just west of the Franklin Mountains. Doc and Billy had already been there for some time, and as Chavez helped Dave down from the horse, they heard the unmistakable sound of a quarrel taking place nearby.

"Sounds like trouble," Dave commented, his arm slung around Chavez's shoulder.

"None of ours," the Indian muttered, helping Dave limp toward a roofless dwelling.

"What if they kill each other?"

"Then I guess we'll just have to find our own way to Mexico."

Dave snorted. "Yeah, if ol' Patsy don't kill us first. Tom and Hendry're buzzard meat now 'cause a that bastard, and they wasn't even wanted men. I'll tell you one thing, Chavez, I'd walk over hot coals for the chance to paint the walls with that sonofabitch's guts right about now."

"Yeah, me too."

They entered the hut and Chavez lowered Dave onto the dirt floor. "Wait here. I'm going to see what's going on."

"I'm comin' too."

"No, you should stay off your leg."

"My leg's just fine, I was runnin' on it earlier."

"You had people shooting at you, Dave."

"That don't make no difference, now stop treatin' me like a goddamn baby, I'm—"

Fingertips were suddenly pressed against Dave's lips, careful to avoid touching his healing cut. He stopped talking and stared at Chavez dumbly, unable to form a sentence in his mind, much less get one past his lips. Slowly the fingers drew back, leaving Dave in a much quieter, docile state.

"Stay here," Chavez murmured. "I'll be back in a minute."

He rose to his feet and strode away, but he wasn't out of the hut two seconds when he heard the shuffling of boots behind him. Turning around, he saw Dave hobbling over the threshold like a lame dog following its master.

"Nice try," Dave grunted, limping toward the Indian, "but you ain't goin' nowhere without me."

Chavez sighed resignedly and waited for Dave to catch up, then the two continued through the village, Chavez walking slowly to accommodate Dave's awkward, uneven gait. They followed the bickering to an old well in the center of the village, happening on Doc and Billy just as the punches started to fly. The two Regulators crashed to the ground and started wrestling, and Chavez immediately jumped in to break it up.

Dave leaned against the crumbling well and watched the fight, privately hoping that Scurlock would get in a good hit or two before the row was broken up. He could punch Billy himself right about now, and not just as payback for hitting him the day before; Dave didn't take too kindly to being left for dead, and if it weren't for his leg, it would probably be him and Billy rolling in the dust right now, slugging the snot out of each other.

Chavez managed to get his arms hooked around Doc and pull him away, but the man still struggled and shouted at Billy, who was dragging himself out of the dirt with a bloody mouth and a bruised cheekbone.

"Why didn't you tell us, you son of a bitch!" Doc shouted, fighting against Chavez's powerful hold. "How long were you gonna wait before telling us? 'Til Garrett had us looking down the long end of a rifle? You planned this all along, didn't you?"

"What's he talkin' about, Billy?" Dave cut in, glancing back and forth nervously between the two men.

"Tell him, Billy," dared Doc. "Tell him about the Mexican Blackbird. Tell him how you've been leading us blind this whole time."

Billy sighed and put his hands on his hips, looking down at his boots: his usual stance for breaking bad news. After a long pause, he finally spoke. "There . . . there ain't no trail."

Chavez abruptly let go of Doc. "_What_?"

"The Mexican Blackbird . . . it, it ain't a trail. It's a half-black, half-Mexican whore up in Puerto de Luna."

"But—" Dave ran a hand through his shaggy hair, looking deeply troubled. "If we ain't been followin' a trail, then what've we been doin' this whole time? Just ridin' with our heads up our asses?"

"We've been stickin' together," Billy corrected. "We're pals, remember? All of us. As long as we're together, we can—"

"Jesus Christ," Dave groaned softly, dropping his face in his hands. "We're lost!"

"We ain't lost! I reckon we're only fifteen miles from El Paso, maybe less! If we got on our horses and rode, we'd be in Old Mexico before sunrise!"

"If Garrett hasn't got another ambush waiting for us," Chavez muttered.

"That's right," Doc added. "I'm willing to bet there's line of bounty hunters standing on the border for a hundred miles in either direction. Garrett knew we were in those mountains, Billy. He was waiting for us in the foothills, and he'll be waiting for us in Old Mexico." He shook his head. "Look at us. For Christ's sake, we're four wanted men. We've all got bounties on our heads. We don't have enough firepower, not nearly enough ammunition, and Garrett's tightening the noose on us as we speak."

"I'm sorry, okay! I just thought—"

"Sorry won't cut it this time, Billy! When were you gonna tell us about the trail, huh? Never? Did you really think we wouldn't find out about it? That Garrett would just tip his hat and let us waltz across the border? None of us is immortal, Billy, especially you." Doc jabbed an accusing finger in the air. "You know what I think? I think all those stories they've been writing about you have gone to your head, and now you think you're some kind of big goddamned hero. You know what you _really_ are, Billy? You're a nineteen-year-old tyrant who thinks he's indestructible. You're a selfish, rotten little brat who rode a fifteen-year-old boy to his grave and the rest of us straight to hell!"

"I was just tryin' to keep the gang together!" Billy snapped, looking more agitated than Dave had ever seen him. "You know I'd die before I let anyone tear us apart!"

"Well, thanks to you, we're _all_ gonna die!"

"At least we'll die together—"

Doc threw himself toward Billy and probably would have knocked him into the dirt again if Chavez hadn't grabbed him at the last second. He raged in the native's arms, bucking and thrashing like a rabid dog.

"I don't _wanna_ die together, Billy, I wanna _live_!" he yelled. "I've got a wife, a baby girl! I gave up this outlaw bullshit a long time ago, remember? I had to practically chew my goddamned leg off just to get away from you because you _didn't wanna let go_! I couldn't get away from you fast enough! And you know what, Billy? I was happier when there was a thousand miles between us. I got the chance to grow up and move on. Do you know what it means to grow up? Of course you don't! You're Billy the _Kid_! You're gonna live the rest of your life in the past, chasing after some old dream, and you're gonna drag everybody else down with you. Well, let me tell you something, Bonney—I am _not_ gonna die for your dream. If you wanna go to hell, then go, but don't expect us to come with you!"

At an absolute loss for words, Billy looked toward Dave for support. "Dave, talk some sense into 'im," he said gently, in his Sad Little Billy-Boy voice. "You know me. You know I'd never do anything to hurt you fellas—we're pals. We can make it through this, it's not a big deal! We can figure a way out, together. Tell 'em, Dave. You know we're right."

Once upon a time, there wasn't anything that Dave wouldn't say or do to keep himself by Billy's side. But things had changed; those days were gone now, and Dave simply sat where he was, his mouth shut and his arms crossed, his eyes and his silence all the answer Billy needed.

Realizing that his former lover was no longer on his side, Billy's face darkened into a scowl. He reached to his belt, pulled his pistol, and leveled it at Dave. "So that's the thanks I get," he muttered. "After all I did for you, and you just turn your back on—"

"Put it down, _chivato_."

All eyes turned to Chavez, who stood holding his knife by the blade, ready to send it spinning into Billy's neck.

"We can resolve this without killing each other," he said steadily. "Put down your gun. Let's talk."

Billy's eyes darted between Dave and Chavez for a few moments, then he grudgingly holstered his pistol. "We ain't got time to talk," he muttered.

"We don't have time to fight, either," the Indian retorted, sheathing his knife. "If we want to live to see sunrise, we need to make a new plan."

"I say we head for Arizona," said Doc flatly.

"They'll have men waitin' for us there, too," Billy countered. "Our best bet is Old Mexico."

"How will we get there, Billy?" asked Chavez. "You said there's no trail. How can we hope to follow a path that doesn't exist?"

"What about Texas?" Doc suggested. "Maybe we can—"

"I'm tellin' you, there ain't no way east or west!" Billy snapped. "We can only go south! There's bound to be a canyon or a ditch, hell, anything that'll cover us while we—"

"Canada."

All eyes came to rest upon Dave. "Canada?" Billy repeated, as if it he'd never heard the word in his life.

"Yeah. I mean, they can't cover the _whole_ border a New Mexico—there ain't enough people in the southwest to do that, let alone lawmen. They're gonna put their firepower where they think we're gonna run: Old Mexico, Arizona, maybe even Texas, like Billy said. But nobody's expectin' us to go north, back up through the territory. That'd be too crazy." Dave left his perch on the well and limped over to the group. "I betcha there ain't nobody watchin' the Colorado border. If we act now, while they still think we're headin' south, we could give 'em the slip. By the time they figure out they've been fooled, we'll be halfway to Canada. "

The idea seemed to settle with Doc and Chavez, but Billy wasn't as willing to hop on board. "Christ, Dave, we're less than_ twenty_ miles away from Old Mexico, and you want us to turn _way_ the hell around and cross over a _thousand_ goddamn miles of open country?"

"You got a better idea, Kid? 'Cause it sounds like ya never had one to begin with."

"Don't cross me, Dave," said Billy warningly.

"Yeah?" Dave grinned recklessly, stepping up to look Billy in the eye. "Let me tell you somethin', _darlin'_: I was robbin' trains when you was still gigglin' over dime novels, and I know a lot more about leadin' men than you do. I didn't become the head of the Dodge City Gang 'cause a my good looks, and I sure as hell didn't lead my _pals_ into danger when I knew there was a better way out. You still got a lotta learnin' to do, kiddo, so you best think twice before ya threaten me again. Got it?"

Billy had never backed down from one of Dave's confrontations before, but he did now, stepping away wordlessly, his lips pinched shut and his eyes hurt and angry.

Across the way, Chavez smiled ever so slightly.

Dave turned to look at the other two outlaws. "Canada sound alright to you fellas?"

Doc and Chavez nodded.

Dave looked over at Billy, pinning him down with a glare. "Alright then. We head north. We stand a better chance if we all stick together and cover each other's asses, but if any a you boys want out, I ain't gonna stop ya. Your life, your choice."

"I'm with you, David," said Chavez.

"I'll go wherever he goes," added Doc, nodding toward the Indian.

"What about you, Billy?" Dave murmured. "You gonna ride with us?"

Billy set his jaw and narrowed his eyes. "I'd rather take my chances with Garrett. Least when _he _turned on me he didn't take the rest a my friends with him." He shouldered past Dave without another word and kept walking.

Dave stared after him for a few moments. If he had known this was the last time he would ever see William Henry Bonney, he might have said something—good luck and farewell, perhaps—but he didn't know, so he said nothing. Billy disappeared into the dusky shadows of the huts, and just like that, he was out of Dave Rudabaugh's life forever. But his gaze didn't linger for long; he turned to Chavez and Doc, _his_ gang now, _his _pals, and gave them a reassuring smile.

"That arm looks pretty bad, Scurlock," he said, nodding at the man's bloody sleeve. "Better get ya fixed up before we do anything else."

Doc nodded his consent, and together the three outlaws made their way to one of the nearby huts. Chavez tended to Doc's gunshot wound while Dave sat in the corner, fingering the bullet hole in his hat and trying to think. He could really use a drink or a cigarette right now, something to calm his nerves. Standing up to Billy like that had been as alarming to him as it must have been to the Kid, but he didn't regret it. It had been the right thing to do, he was sure.

When Doc's wounds were cleaned and wrapped, the trio squatted on the floor in a loose circle and watched Dave scratch out a rough map in the dirt with a stick. "I ain't gonna be sweet about it, boys—we're real bad off," he muttered. "There ain't a town in New Mexico that don't know our names and faces, so we need to lay low and keep quiet when we reach civilization again."

"And where would that be?" asked Doc.

Dave drew a wavy line from the top of New Mexico to the bottom, a little left of center. "The way I figure, everything east of the Rio Grande is our enemy. We got Lincoln, Fort Sumner, Las Vegas, and a buncha other places where we ain't welcome. Whole place'll be crawlin' with mercenaries and desperados. We'll have a better chance if we stick to the west and hop a train up north to Albuquerque."

"'Hop a train'?" Doc echoed dubiously.

"Yeah. Ain't you never hopped a train before?"

"I _have_ never hopped a train before, no—"

"Ain't nothin' to it—easy as fallin' off a log. Faster than horses, too. Won't be but a day's ride, then we get off at Albuquerque, steal a couple horses, and ride for Colorado, keepin' the Rio to our right."

"Then what?"

Dave licked his lips slowly. "I, uh . . . I ain't thought that far ahead yet. Tell ya the truth, it'll be a miracle if we get outta New Mexico alive."

Doc closed his eyes and massaged his forehead. Beside him, Chavez stared down at the lines in the dirt and tilted his head. "We could pass through Tierra Amarilla," he murmured.

"Tia-what?"

"It was a Mexican land grant back in the 30s. Navajo raids made it almost impossible to settle there. Then the raids stopped and a reservation was set up a few miles to the west, right on the Colorado border."

". . . This is all real interestin', Chavez, but what's it got—"

"My father and mother met in Tierra Amarilla," he said, raising his auburn-brown eyes to Dave's hazel-green ones. "It was where I was born. This reservation was my home."

"Is this good news?" Doc asked.

"My mother's people will shelter us and provide us safe passage into Colorado."

Dave broke into a grin. "Well, shit, there might be hope for us yet!"

"It's still a long way to the border," said Doc grimly. "And through hostile territory."

"The railroad'll help with that. If we're lucky, we can be outta New Mexico in three or four days."

They all went quiet for a few minutes, allowing their plan to digest as they stared at the map drawn in the dirt. Finally, Doc heaved a deep breath and broke the silence:

"So where do we 'hop' this train, Dave?"

"I reckon our best bet is Las Cruces. The Santa Fe runs all the way down to El Paso—there's bound to be somethin' headin' our way in the next day or two."

Doc nodded thoughtfully, rubbing his beard. "Alright. When should we head out?"

"Well, the sooner we leave, the better our chances. Think you can ride with that arm a yours, Scurlock?"

"He can ride with me," said Chavez. "You lead us, Dave."

For the barest second, Dave felt that stab of loneliness cut through him again. The Regulators, the Old Pals, would be riding together, leaving Dave all by his lonesome. He hadn't really thought of it until now, but he wouldn't have minded sharing a horse with Chavez until he could rustle up one of his own. In fact, he had kind of enjoyed riding with the Indian, just like he'd enjoyed sleeping with him last night.

Thinking about it _that_ way, Dave felt his face begin to flush. He tried to rationalize it, tried to make the excuse that Chavez just had a calming, positive effect on him, but the more he thought about it, the more he began to question those deep dark feelings stirring in the pit of his heart. Chavez had nursed Dave out of a depression that could have ruined him forever, had helped him rediscover his own inner power, which had ultimately endowed him with the ability to stand up to Billy tonight. He had reassured Dave that loving another man was not shameful, that it didn't make him weak or defective, and had even forgiven the white man for his bigoted ways and offered him his friendship. In hindsight, Chavez had done more for Dave than any man he had ever known, Billy included. In two days the Indian had shown him more care and affection than in all of Dave's short, sad relationships combined. If _that_ wasn't love, then what else could it be?

Dave swallowed and pressed his hat onto his head, hiding his eyes under the shadow of the brim. "Alright," he said. "Saddle up—we ride for Las Cruces."

* * *

><p>It was a long night, starless and dark, the sky obscured by clouds and disturbed by occasional rumbles of thunder. They rode side by side, more to keep from losing each other than any measure of safety. Dave had taken Doc's horse, and the blond-haired schoolteacher, riding with Chavez and no doubt weakened by his injury, rested his head on the native's shoulder and had apparently fallen asleep, if his lack of chatter was any indication. But Dave envied Scurlock for more reasons than just the much-needed rest he was getting; the thought of anyone else sharing Chavez's intimate closeness was enough to make him sick with jealousy. It was silly and irrational, he knew, especially since Scurlock had a family he was trying to get home to, but Dave couldn't help the way he felt. He could, however, try to ignore it and do what he had to do to keep himself and his comrades alive.<p>

They followed a wavering old trail north, and soon the jagged black silhouette of the Organ Mountains was looming up against the dark blue sky. As soon as Dave was confident of their position, he urged his steed westward, leading the team around the mountains. He hoped that none of Garrett's men were lingering in the foothills—he doubted it, but if there were, at least the cover of night would offer some protection. He hated riding out in the open like this, especially in the pitch black. He was too unsure of his direction, too anxious about losing his way. Only the railroad could be trusted, that was Dave's gospel. The railroad never moved or washed out or changed courses—it was set and permanent, and Dave knew the lines between here and Kansas as well as the back of his own hand. Just a few more miles across the desert and they would reach the Santa Fe rail, then they could follow it right into Las Cruces. They would be alright. They would make it.

The clouds broke up for a brief time, allowing a little moonlight to filter down to the flat, desolate landscape. They took advantage of the extra visibility and ran the horses across the broad expanse of flat, hard earth, eventually coming to the railroad that Dave was so desperately counting on. It lay in the dark like a precious trail of breadcrumbs, its quiet steel girders gleaming blue in the moonlight: a veritable road to salvation. The outlaws thundered alongside the railway, chasing it like vengeful ghosts hoping to find their peace before the light of dawn destroyed them.

Las Cruces appeared on the horizon just as the sky was beginning to turn a pale, milky shade of gray, and there on the tracks ahead was crouched a steaming, grumbling train, ready to begin crawling its way north to Albuquerque. It was a cargo train, carrying boxcars of quarry rock and wood and other raw materials to and from El Paso. Apparently it had just delivered a shipment since many of the cars were empty—a stroke of luck.

The three men dismounted a short distance away and gathered what they needed from their saddles, then followed Dave through the fading shadows of the train yard. Dodging out of sight of the freight workers, they slithered into an empty boxcar and bundled themselves into the corners, holding their breath each time they heard voices approaching and praying that nobody would take the time to peek inside. After half an hour of sweating and nail-biting, the train finally lurched into motion and began to drag itself forward, building speed as it left Las Cruces behind, a shipment of feedstock and three outlaw stowaways on board.

When Dave was certain they were in the clear, he crawled over and wrestled the heavy wooden doors open a little wider, allowing the cool morning air to flow into the car. Then he sank back against the door and heaved a massive sigh of relief, removing his hat and allowing the wind to rush through his hair.

"Thanks, Dave."

He cracked his eye open and was surprised to find that it was Doc who had addressed him, his voice louder than usual in order to be heard over the rumble of the train. "For what?" Dave asked with equal volume, his exhaustion muddying his thought processes.

"For getting us out of there. For getting us this far."

"Well, we ain't outta the fire yet, Scurlock, so don't thank me for nothin' 'til we're in the clear."

Doc grinned and gave a weary nod of agreement.

Chavez appeared at the open door and crouched down, staring at the swiftly-moving ground below, then up at the hot yellow sun rising over New Mexico. Dave watched him languidly, taking in the way the wind caught Chavez's long, raven-black hair and sent it waving, the way the sunlight glowed on the smooth bronze skin of his face, the warm reddish hue of his eyes, the way he narrowed them against the bright light and parted his lips to exhale.

He was beautiful, Dave decided then, staring at him admiringly. A Mexican-Indian half-breed, without a drop of white blood in him, and he was beautiful . . . Or maybe it was his life that made him beautiful, the type of man he was, resilient and mysterious and wise, brave and loyal and forgiving. Dave had only known him for a few weeks, only _really_ known him for a few days, but already he could feel that familiar dizzy-sick-happy feeling in his heart every time he looked at Chavez, just like this. It was the way he had felt when he first met Billy, only different. With Billy, he always had to pretend. No one could know. Every kiss was preceded by a punch or an insult. Everything was an exaggerated show of masculinity. But with Chavez, Dave didn't have to pretend at all. It was how falling in love _should_ feel—without shame, without fear, without restraint.

However, as nice as it felt to be in love with someone, there was always the chance that the other person might not want—or be able—to return that love. Dave knew it was entirely possible that Chavez might not be _that_ kind of man. But, on the other hand, he had never seen him partake of a sporting woman's advances, nor had he heard Chavez speak of a wife or sweetheart. Then again, he'd also never seen the Indian drink or smoke or gamble, which didn't mean that he _didn't_ do any of those things—it just meant that Dave had never seen him do any of them. Maybe he drank, maybe he didn't. Maybe he slept with women, maybe he enjoyed the company of men. Dave didn't know. And he certainly wasn't going to ruin his chances (his chances? Yes. Yes, he _was _going to take a chance) by doing something stupid, like flat-out asking. Maybe he'd have an opportunity later, when they were all safely out of New Mexico and—

"This is my first time on a train."

Chavez's words cut through Dave's thoughts and brought him back to the present with a start. "Wha-what?"

Thinking that he hadn't spoken loudly enough, Chavez leaned over—close enough for his hair to brush against Dave's cheek—and said, "This is my first time on a train."

"Really? Well, uh, well, shit. Congratulations, then." Dave smiled anxiously and licked his lips. "How, uh . . . how're you likin' it?"

"It's different," Chavez murmured, staring out of the car. "I never knew that something like this could change the way you see the world . . ."

Dave looked out at the open desert, at the wasteland they were leaving behind, and leaned his head against the door and sighed. "Yeah. The little things always do."


	4. Chapter 4

"Dave. David. Wake up, the train stopped."

Dave blinked his bleary eyes and sat up, noticing that the train was indeed at a standstill. It was hot. His shirt was soaked with sweat and the sun was blazing outside the boxcar like all the bonfires in hell. His gunshot wound ached more than usual, the pain much sharper than it had ever been before. He winced and massaged his left shoulder, hoping to alleviate some of the discomfort. Chavez, who had woken him, was already on his feet, gathering up the empty canteens and firearms with Doc.

"Where are we?" Dave grunted, climbing to his feet and fanning his face with his hat.

"Albuquerque," said Doc, nodding toward the blinding white square of the outside world. "Says so on the sign out there. It's just about noon now, so we'd better get out of here before somebody comes and—"

In a remarkably well-timed stroke of bad luck, a large, muscular railworker appeared at the boxcar's open door, no doubt making his final rounds checking cargo. He recoiled in surprise at the sight of the three rough and ragged gunmen instead of the customary feedstock from El Paso. "Shit!" he cried, and reached over to close the door and trap the stowaways inside.

Dave was the closest, so he lashed out with his boot and caught the man in the face, leaping off the train to follow him to the ground.

"Christ, here we go again!" Doc exclaimed, reaching for his rifle.

Chavez was already scrambling out of the boxcar to assist Dave in subduing the man, who was a full head taller and at least a hundred pounds heavier than the short, wiry outlaw on top of him. Dave didn't seem to care about the inequality, though. He had been tangling with drunks, _banditos_, and various other tavern-crawling scumrats since he was thirteen, usually in defense of his prostitute mother, and he knew how to hold his own in a fistfight. That wasn't to say that he didn't get his ass kicked from time to time, but the size of an opponent had never prevented Dave Rudabaugh from putting up his dukes. His old Dodge City gang always said that he had more balls than brains, but they said it very, _very_ quietly, and always behind his back. They knew better than to start shit with a man who had nothing to lose.

Living up to his feisty reputation, Dave enthusiastically pummeled the man he was straddling, slinging snot and spittle into the dirt as he pounded the square, meaty head without mercy. Chavez drew his knife and prepared to jump in, then the big brute landed a punch on Dave's left shoulder. Dave immediately pulled back with a guttural groan, and the man grabbed him by the lapels of his coat and hurled him to the side, red-faced and snarling mad.

Chavez moved quickly and efficiently, like a rattlesnake striking at its enemy, darting in and slicing the worker's cheek and arm before he was even aware. The man looked up at Chavez with fury in his bloodshot eyes, then the butt of Doc's rifle smashed into the back of his head, causing those eyes to roll back like marbles. He fell face-first into the dust and didn't move—knocked out cold.

Sheathing his knife, Chavez kneeled down to where Dave lay in the dirt, curled up in a fetal ball of pain. He laid a gentle hand on Dave's arm. "Are you alright?"

"Sonofabitch . . . hit my bad shoulder," he gritted out, blinking away the tears of pain in his eyes.

"I don't mean to rush you fellas, but we'd better get the hell outta here _now_," Doc hissed, looking around earnestly.

Sure enough, there came a shout from across the train yard as they were spotted, and Chavez reached down and hauled Dave off the ground. "Come on, Rothenburg, on your feet."

Dave looked ready to vomit, his face waxy and slick with sweat. He nodded lethargically and clutched his wounded shoulder, falling in line behind Doc and Chavez as they snuck through the yard, slipping between cars and eventually making their way around the side of the train station and into town. They promptly ducked into a narrow, junk-cluttered alleyway, waiting to see if anyone was giving chase. After a few moments, they let out a collective sigh and relaxed . . . except for Dave, who sat down on a broken barrel and groaned softly.

"What's the matter with him?" Doc asked Chavez under his breath.

"He got shot in Lincoln, when we were escaping from the Murphy-Dolan lynch mob," the Indian answered soberly, staring at Dave's hunched, weary posture. "The wound is still causing him trouble."

Doc frowned and scrubbed his beard pensively. "That was weeks ago. It should be healed by now . . ."

Chavez's gaze drifted to Dave, now the youngest member of their group, and Doc suddenly broke away to go stand in front of him. "Show me the wound," he said gently, leaning down and removing his hat for a better look.

Dave lifted his eyes with a pathetic, reluctant grimace, but he obeyed nevertheless, undoing a few buttons and pulling his collar aside to reveal a smooth, daintily-freckled triangle of skin, marred only by the single ugly hole in his shoulder. Though small, the wound was swollen red around the edges and covered by a thick, crusty scab. The punch he'd just received had torn part of it away, revealing a slimy mass of inflamed flesh and oozing pus. The area around the puncture was still brownish-yellow from the fading bruise of the initial penetration, but the skin on the edge of the wound was beginning to turn purple.

Necrosis, Doc realized, calling up the few terms he remembered from the medical books in Tunstall's library. Infarction. Gangrene. Septicemia. Toxicity. Amputation.

"Jesus," he murmured. He pulled his gloves off with his teeth and laid his hand on Dave's brow. Just as he suspected: hot to the touch, cold with sweat, sickly pallor—all signs of a raging infection.

Doc rose and returned to Chavez, lowering his voice to a hush. "I need to examine the wound. There's probably a bullet fragment or something still in there, and if I don't get it out soon, it's going to poison his blood and then it'll be too late." He took a slow breath. "We need to get him to a hotel or someplace where we can lay low for a while. You familiar with Albuquerque?"

"It's not exactly my town."

Doc turned. "Hey, Dave, you wouldn't happen to know the name of the nearest tavern here, would you?"

Dave had pulled his hat off and was fanning his sweaty neck. He looked as if he were having a hard time trying to stay focused—blinking, wiping his forehead, moving sluggishly. "Yeah, uh . . . there's this place off of Broad Street, Tumble Inn or something. Big ol' sign with a tumbleweed on it. Kind of a hole-in-the-wall, but . . . wait, you're not thinkin' about . . . ohhh no. Hell no, we can't stay _here_. For Chrissakes, we got, we gotta keep movin', the law'll be on our asses if they—"

Doc reached down and took Dave by the elbow, urging him to stand. "We can't go anywhere until that hole in your shoulder's fixed up."

"What, this? It's fine. It just hurts 'cause that asshole back there punched—"

Doc stooped down an inch or two so that his eyes were level with Dave's. "You've got a fever," he said, as if explaining something outrageously simple to a complete moron. "Your body is fighting an infection. If you don't get treated, your organs are going to start shutting down one by one, and you will die a slow, painful death."

Dave's green eyes widened in fear.

"That's what I thought. Come on, show us where this tumbleweed inn is. You might still have a chance."

* * *

><p>Chavez stood in the doorway with his arms crossed, watching as Dave, seated in a chair and naked from the waist up, with his eyes shut and his teeth clenched, endured the clearly excruciating pain of Doc cleaning his bullet wound with a pocket knife and a bottle of 100-proof rotgut. Admirably, he wasn't making a sound, even though he was shaking like an old man and there were tears painting white lines down his dirty cheeks.<p>

Looking on as Doc excavated a tiny scrap of rotting shirt from the bloody hole, Chavez felt more than just pity for Dave. Now free from Billy's powerful, dominating influence, Dave Rudabaugh had proved himself to be a fairly reliable man. He knew how to get out of a bad situation fast, and he had exhibited all the qualities of a seasoned leader. Though Chavez had known Billy longer, he felt more confident following an experienced outlaw than a kid, which was precisely what Billy was: an unruly, headstrong, too-big-for-his-britches teenager. Granted, Dave wasn't much older at twenty-five, but he was a hell of a lot more mature, focused, and less impulsive than his ex-lover. Chavez idly wondered how and why Dave got involved with Billy, especially considering how different they were from one another. Well, it wasn't any of Chavez's business and he certainly wasn't going to ask. But all things considered, he was starting to like this new side of David Rothenburg—and he didn't enjoy watching him suffer, as he was now. He wanted to help, of course, as any friend would, but he also didn't want to be a hindrance. Doc was familiar with this type of procedure and seemed moderately certain of what he was doing; perhaps Chavez could offer a different type of assistance . . .

Dave knocked back another mouthful of whiskey straight from the bottle and hissed as Doc dabbed at the gory puncture with a wet rag. Chavez abandoned his post at the doorway and approached Dave's chair, squatting down and gently prying the bottle out of his hand, offering his own in its place. Dave regarded him with a drowsy, drunken expression of surprise. Then he smiled slightly and clasped Chavez's hand, giving it a hard squeeze as Doc started in with the knife again.

Chavez wasn't even aware that he had begun to murmur under his breath, words that Dave would not have understood even if he had even been able to hear them: a cursive mixture of Spanish and Navajo, alternating sentences spoken in a smooth, steady stream, encouragement and prayers and invocations of strength. After a while, Dave stopped shaking. His grip went slack and his head drooped to one side, and he was released from his present agony by the mercy of alcohol-induced sleep.

A half hour later, Chavez helped Doc move Dave, now with a makeshift bandage wrapping his shoulder, to the narrow bed in the corner. They left him sleeping and went to the tavern downstairs, where Doc grimly explained the situation over a meal of stewed chicken and cornbread.

"I think I got most of it out, but I can't be sure," he muttered, keeping his voice low and his face turned away from the other patrons in the dim little establishment. "It's a pretty bad infection and he'll probably need a real doctor if it doesn't get better. Only time will tell."

"Time that we don't have," Chavez said bluntly.

"Yeah . . ."

The two Regulators fell silent, each sharing the same thoughts and concerns, especially with regards to the missing leader of their gang. Billy's fate was directly tied to their own: if he somehow made it to Old Mexico, Garrett's men would be forced to turn their attention to more domestic game; and if Billy were captured—all alone, as he was—then the search would continue for the rest of The Kid's pals. The three remaining outlaws needed all the time they could get, and even though they'd covered a hell of a lot of ground by hopping that train this morning, they now faced losing it all—and more—if Dave didn't heal up soon.

"What should we do?" Chavez asked.

Doc shrugged. "Nothing to do but wait. We'll give him a day. If he's not better by then . . . we'll just have to think of something else." His eyes wandered to Chavez's untouched cornbread. "What's the matter? No appetite?"

"I was thinking of saving it for Dave. He'll be hungry when he wakes up, and . . ."

Doc stared at his friend intently and chewed. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm sure he'll appreciate that."

In the silence that followed, Chavez stood his knife on end on the scarred wooden table, turning it slowly back and forth, watching his face bend in its silver reflection. "Do you think he's going to die?"

Doc swallowed loudly and put down his spoon. "I don't know," he answered honestly.

"If he gets sick . . . I mean, if the infection poisons his blood, how much time will he have?"

"I don't know. It depends."

"Will there be anything we can do for him?"

"Probably not."

Chavez continued to turn his knife. "How far are we from Colorado, do you think?"

"About a hundred and fifty miles or so, give or take." Doc tilted his head. He could tell Chavez's gears were turning, but he was reluctant to ask what was on his companion's mind. He just hoped it wasn't another crazy, reckless, poorly-thought-out plan—he'd had enough of those to last the rest of his life.

"Don't worry about Dave," he said, anxious to draw Chavez out of his black mood. "He'll probably be on his feet and back to his smartass self in no time. You'll see." He gave a reassuring smile.

"Yeah," Chavez muttered, obviously not convinced.

Doc sighed and went back to his stew, but found that he seemed to have lost his appetite as well. He picked up his wedge of cornbread and passed it to Chavez's plate. "Here," he said blankly. "For Dave. And I'll ask the matron if she's got any bacon or dried beef or something. Man can't live on cornbread alone."

Chavez smiled thinly, but his eyes were still deep and faraway. "Thanks," he said softly. "I'm sure Dave will appreciate it."

* * *

><p>The heat of the afternoon was finally beginning to fade as it grew closer to sundown. Golden light glowed behind the curtains of the only window in the room, the searing heat sucking the color out of the fabric and chewing it apart at the seams. There were three small beds in the room—two against one wall, the other nestled in the corner—and each of them was currently occupied. Doc had fallen asleep almost the moment he had gone horizontal; he lay on his stomach, snoring softly as he, like his companions, made up for several days of poor rest. Chavez lay on his side, facing the bed in the corner, where Dave was still passed out and pretty well anesthetized. He caught snatches of sleep—a few minutes here, a half hour there—but he spent most of the time watching the shadows lengthen against the wall, or Dave's chest rise and fall with each soundless, shallow breath he took.<p>

Though it was warm and stuffy in the room, Chavez couldn't deny his strange urge to slip into the narrow bed beside Dave and lie there with him, like he had two nights ago. He was beginning to crave the feeling of another body beside him, a development which he found disturbing and slightly embarrassing. His solitary, self-reliant nature was legendary among the Regulators, and he would never admit to enjoying the company of another person, let alone _desiring_ that company. But Dave . . . Dave was more sensitive than he let on, someone who ought to be loved and wanted, someone who needed companionship. He was tough on the outside, Chavez didn't doubt that at all, but once that hard outer shell was chipped away, inside he was all soft and tender, like a girl.

Normally Chavez would have sneered at a man who possessed this sort of duality, but in Dave, he found it oddly fitting, maybe even endearing. Perhaps it was his personality: brash, smart alecky, intentionally rude, almost proudly ignorant, pathetically codependent, too obedient and eager to please. But, once you got to know him, he was surprisingly friendly, humorous, and trustworthy. Maybe all these conflicting characteristics made it all right in the end—because all these things made Dave, who was all right by Chavez . . . but Dave wasn't all right at all right now. _That_, perhaps, was the strongest reason why Chavez felt like going over there and lying down beside him. He'd never known anyone like Dave Rudabaugh before, so unusual, so diametrical in every aspect of his life, and he wanted to continue to know him . . . unless Fate had other plans.

Dave suddenly exhaled hard and let out a soft moan as he stirred. Chavez immediately rolled from his bed to go over and crouch beside Dave's. The outlaw's face was flushed and gleaming with sweat, his hair matted to his forehead. "Chavez . . ." he uttered, though his eyes were closed and there was no way he could have known that the Indian was at his side.

"I'm here, Dave," Chavez answered, laying his hand on Dave's chest. He could feel the white man's heart thudding beneath his palm, fast and frantic. "Wake up."

Dave's glassy green eyes blinked open, almost as if his subconscious mind had heeded the command and wrenched him from his fitful dream. He let out a grateful sigh and tried to smile. "Chavez. You're alive."

"Of course. Why wouldn't I be?"

"I, I just had the awfullest dream," Dave stammered, closing his eyes and swallowing dryly. "I dreamt we was surrounded by a whole army a lawmen, every sheriff and deputy and bounty hunter in New Mexico, a mile thick, all around us—"

"You need to drink some water, Dave."

"—and we was trapped in this inn with no place to run, and they was shootin' up the walls 'til there was nothin' left of 'em, and we kept movin' toward the center to get away from bullets, and then we was trapped in this tiny little room, no bigger than a closet, and they shot you in the heart and the room filled up with blood and I started drownin' in it—"

"_Enough_," Chavez snapped, holding a dripping ladle up to Dave's dry, rambling lips. "It was a dream. You're awake now and no one is dead. Drink."

"But it felt . . . I mean, shit, it was so _real_."

Chavez sighed and returned the ladle to the bucket of water standing beside the bed. "Here, sit up," he said, his tone more gentle. "You need to cool off."

He slid a hand under Dave's sweaty, slippery back and helped him up. Dave reeled and shut his eyes, bowing his head and hunching down. "Uh God," he croaked. "Think I'm gonna purge."

"You need to drink water. You've had too much whiskey, you're sick, and your body is dying of thirst. Here." Chavez held up the ladle again. "And don't vomit on me, _gringo_, or I'll have to cut you."

Dave grinned at the rare display of humor and took the ladle from Chavez's hand, draining it in a single gulp. He handed it back, Chavez refilled it, and, six servings later, he was finally satisfied.

"Thanks," he murmured. "I feel better now." He wiped his brow with the back of his wrist. It came away wet and shiny.

Chavez stared at Dave's flushed red cheeks and sweaty face, and a thought suddenly occurred to him. "Dave, do you still have the bandanna I gave you?"

"Huh?"

"The red one. From when Billy . . ."

Dave's fingers automatically went to the scab on his upper lip, his eyes distant as he remembered that heart-wrenching night, and the red paisley bandanna that Chavez had used to clean the blood from his busted face.

"Yeah. Yeah, I, uh, I put it in my coat. Left inside pocket, over there." He nodded toward the chipped, beaten bureau beyond the foot of the bed, where his hat, shirt and coat lay in a loosely-folded pile. "Should be in there somewhere."

Chavez went to the bureau and pawed through the pockets of Dave's grungy duster. It smelled like him. Dave-smell. Gunpowder and salty leather and stale whiskey and the musky, greasy odor of skin and scalp that was completely unique to Dave Rudabaugh. No other man smelled like that, nor would any man after him. Chavez found the bandanna and pulled it out, pausing for a few seconds to study the stiff, brownish splotches of dried blood.

_Use a handkerchief, _pendejo_._

_'Cause I love him. But he don't love me no more . . ._

Chavez banished the echoes from his mind and returned to Dave's bedside, submerging the bandanna in the bucket and wringing out the excess. Then, carefully folding the cloth into a wide rectangle, he sat on the edge of the bed and leaned forward, plastering the gloriously cool, wet handkerchief to Dave's burning forehead.

"Ah—" Dave let out an abbreviated gasp, rivulets of water trickling into his eyebrows and eyelashes, down his nose and cheeks, rolling over the scab on his upper lip that Billy had given him because he didn't love him no more. Chavez stared at the droplets as they continued their course down Dave's stubbly, unshaven jaw, down the long, smooth column of his throat, over his collarbone and chest, until they finally disappeared in the thin, wiry trail of hair leading down his belly.

Ignorant of his being watched, Dave reached up with his good arm to hold the bandanna in place, and for a brief moment his hand came into contact with Chavez's.

Desert-brown eyes dragged themselves up to meet heather-green ones, startlingly close and unfathomably intimate, and Dave, with his face radiating as hotly as the furnace of a blazing steam engine, opened his mouth in surprise. A drop of water that had been trembling on his upper lip suddenly splashed onto his tongue, and Chavez, for reasons he couldn't begin to describe, wanted to chase that drop, catch it, and taste it for himself. He leaned forward, his mind nothing but a feral mass of impulse and instinct. His nose brushed Dave's, still dripping with water, and the wet sensation shocked him back to his senses.

He pulled back and dropped his hands, leaving Dave sitting there with a sopping bandanna pressed to his head, looking drunk and confused . . . and completely devastated.

"Are you hungry?" Chavez asked a little too quickly. "There's ham and cornbread here."

A few seconds lapsed before Dave finally seemed capable of forming words. "No, thanks," he said emptily, his voice as quiet and frail as the last clinging leaf of autumn.

They stared at each other for what felt like an hour, trapped in some kind of hell where time stood still in awful moments like these, allowing the pain to stretch on for decades. Then Dave blinked, turned away, and lay down on his right side, his back to Chavez: a silent wall of Caucasian flesh, creased by the gentle curve of his spine.

Chavez had never felt so foolish, so remorseful, so full of self-loathing, as he did at this moment. Unable to bear the smothering tension and desperate to get away from himself, he rose to his feet, pulled on his boots, and left the room without another word.

In the emptiness of Chavez's wake, Dave closed his eyes and let all of his hope and all of his air rush out of him in the heaviest, loneliest, most hopeless sigh that his body had ever produced. In that sigh, he forgot about Canada, about Billy, about Scurlock and Chavez, about everything. He should have known better than to believe that he could be happy, that he could find someone to be happy with. Billy was right; there ain't no place for queers in the wild west. It was just a boys' game he was playing, no way to live. He should have given this shit up three years ago, found himself a wife, and settled down in Texas to raise a brood of kids who would forever be ashamed of their drunken, unhappy, good-for-nothing father. It was too late now, anyway; Arkansas Dave Rudabaugh was a wanted man and there was no hope for redemption on this side of the mortal vale. He might as well face it—it was over. His race was run, his hand was dealt, and now he had nothing to look forward to but the end.

Whoever said life was beautiful and meant to be lived was a goddamned liar.

Dave slipped off into a feverish sleep again, disturbed by dreams of blood and bullets, his breath coming rapidly and unsteadily as he twitched, grimacing, tormented by nightmares from which no watchful guardian would wake him. The shadows crawled across the wall, deepening as the last long minutes of the summer day drew to a close. Then the sun disappeared, the night awoke and stretched her arms, and darkness settled over Albuquerque.

* * *

><p><em>Thanks to everyone reading and following this story! Don't forget to leave a line or two before you go—even the smallest reviews are appreciated in a big way. -HJB<em>


	5. Chapter 5

Dave remembered the exact date he'd met Billy. It was Wednesday, the fourteenth of August, 1878, sometime after two o'clock in the afternoon. Dave's memory tended to be more visual than numerical, but he had turned twenty-four precisely one month ago, so maybe that had something to do with it.

He had been sitting at His Table with the rest of His Gang at the Center Street Saloon in Las Vegas, knocking back shots and gloating over his current poker winnings while a coquettish redhead named Bea subtly drilled herself against his unresponsive crotch. Then the saloon doors had punched open, throwing harsh sunlight into the dark, smoky interior. A man wearing a dusty poncho and a Navajo headband walked in and stood before an audience of glaring eyes and tight, silent mouths. He smiled and raised his hand. "Howdy."

Dave forgot all about cards, jackpots, whiskey, and the whore grinding on his lap as he stared at the newcomer.

He was a young fellow, late teens by the looks of it, short, slim, his eyes quick and alert—intelligent or crafty, one or the other. His hair was a pale golden blond (like sand, Dave thought ) and it fell to his collar in the typical shaggy style of a boy who had just passed into manhood. His face was smooth and clean, lightly tanned, his color healthy. As he sauntered fearlessly up to the bar, Dave saw that his eyes were blue. Or maybe blue-green, the color of a deep river or a perfect specimen of turquoise. Dave didn't care for adjectives or metaphors at this point—all he knew was that this kid was the handsomest creature he'd ever laid eyes on.

And the bravest, too. He had to be out of his gourd, blowing in here just as carefree as a dandelion, grinning as if every snake-eyed, cutthroat bastard in the saloon had been missing him. This was the meanest pub in the meanest town in three territories; only a man of Dave Rudabaugh's legendary insanity had the balls to do something as suicidal as this, and he was currently sitting in slack-jawed, stupefied awe of this sassy young rascal.

"Don't lose your fag, chief," said Slapjack Bill, nodding to the cigarette dangling precariously from his boss's open mouth.

Dave hastily checked himself and pretended that he hadn't been gawking. Jordy and Dutch nudged each other and snickered, but quickly shut up when Bill nailed them down with a double-barrel glare.

The boys in the Dodge City Gang knew all about Dave Rudabaugh, the way he could sit there, like he was now, with a panting, slippery-wet vixen straddling his lap and completely ignore her when a good-looking man walked in. It was the sole reason he'd earned the nickname "Dirty Dave"—and it had nothing to do with an aversion to soap. No, this was moral dirtiness, social filth. Dave had tried to expunge his unwanted title by tacking the prefix "Arkansas" onto his name, but that was just a poor attempt to cover up his potentially dangerous secret. He was a homosexual, and everyone in the gang knew it.

Normally this would have been enough to justify a good old-fashioned lynching, but Dave was their leader. He was their comrade. Furthermore, he was a fucking hair-trigger lunatic. He once carved a slice out of Jack Pierce's face for calling him a cocksucker, and he liked to make fire bombs out of whiskey bottles and ride through town, chucking them through windows for the sheer fun of it. He was rumored to have killed 63 men (not including Mexicans and Indians—they weren't people), and nobody in the gang had the gall to ask him to prove it. They just believed him. So they tolerated his sexual deviancy, his manic unpredictability during love affairs, and the bouts of depression and binge-drinking when they ended. It wasn't all that hard, really; Dave seemed pretty determined about keeping his business his business.

But sometimes a person couldn't help but notice. Like now, when he was staring at this cocky little colt as if his heart had just popped out of his chest and sprouted golden wings to a chorus of _Hallelujah_. What an embarrassment.

Dave folded his cards on the table, lifted Bea off of him with a quick "'Scuse me, darlin'," and made his way over to the bar. Behind him, his gang sighed and shook their heads, but said nothing. They knew better than to get between their boss and one of his beaus. Might as well stick your hand in a viper's nest.

"Hey," said Dave with an anxious smile, licking his lips as he settled onto the stool beside the stranger.

"Hey yourself," came the half-grinned reply, that clean-cut young face turning to look at Dave.

Damn, those eyes really _were_ turquoise. And that flawless skin, that mischievous smile . . . Dave's mouth dried out faster than a drunk in jail.

"Hey," he repeated mindlessly, unable to stop gazing at those chiseled lips, that soft, champagne-colored hair, that handsome little nose—"I, uh, don't recall ever seein' you 'round here before."

"That's because I've never been here before," the youth smirked. "You woulda remembered me."

_I sure woulda_. Dave's heart beat against his ribcage like a madman in an asylum, then his survival instincts kicked in. "Hey Edgar, how 'bout two ponies down here?" he called to the barkeep. Moments later two shots of whiskey were set in front of them.

"_Muchos gracias_," said the kid, raising his glass obligingly and emptying it in a single gulp.

Dave sat there and blinked, watching that slim, sensual throat swallow down all that fiery alcohol as easily as if it were water. He hadn't pegged the kid for a drinker, but he supposed looks could be deceiving.

"'Nother one?" Dave offered. He was absolutely ready to sit here and spend every dime he had if it meant he could be near this mysterious, irresistible young man for a while.

A nod. "Please."

Polite, too. Dave didn't appreciate manners much, but he admired those who had them. Maybe it reminded him of being young and innocent, before his mother had gone harlot and personal dignity still meant something. In any case, Dave liked nice, respectful fellows; somehow it made being a filthy, despicable pervert easier. Trying to be straight and decent was just too tough sometimes.

"Ya got a name, kiddo?" Dave asked, watching his guest throw back his second shot.

"My pals call me Billy."

A few hairs went up on the back of Dave's neck. "Just Billy? No, uh . . . nothin' else?"

"That your gang?" asked Just Billy, glancing over his shoulder at the rough-looking group of gunmen crowded around the table.

"Yeah, those're my boys alright."

"Dodge City, by any chance?"

"That's right. Why? Ya lookin' for us?"

The kid smiled and turned back to Dave. "Maybe. I got a buddy down in Fort Sumner who's thinkin' 'bout goin' into the rustlin' business, and we need some experienced hands to help us out. Heard you Dodge City boys're quite a talented bunch."

Dave snorted. "Some. Most of 'em are just crazy."

Billy narrowed his eyes and leaned in close, smirking cattily. "I bet you're the craziest one, ain't ya?"

He was close enough that Dave could smell the whiskey on his breath, warm and heavy, mixed with the moist scent of saliva.

Dave breathed in deep and let himself get lost in those gorgeous blue eyes. "Seems our reputations've gone before us," he murmured. "Ain't that right, McCarty?"

"Seems so, Rudabaugh."

Dave bit his bottom lip to keep the moan from rising out of his throat.

Billy the Kid. Billy the _Fucking Kid_, here in Las Vegas, in Dave's saloon, knowing Dave's name and being so sly and coy about it. Billy the Kid _knew_ him and had come here to find him.

There was nothing for it; Dave was suddenly harder than cast-iron, the crotch of his trousers tented up like a teepee. And he was pretty sure Billy had noticed (and, astoundingly enough, _approved_), judging from the way he kept leaning in, his smile so sweet and yet so feral, sliding his small hand closer and closer to Dave's, until their fingertips touched and a wave of arousal almost knocked Dave off of his barstool. He closed his eyes and tried to steady himself.

"I'd like to make you and your boys an offer, Dave," Billy said lowly, placing his hand on Dave's knee and giving it a promising squeeze. "Maybe you could invite me over to your table for a little game a cards, huh?"

Dave would have lifted the table onto his shoulder and carried it all the way to the bar if Billy had asked him to. He was wrapped around the Kid's dainty little finger tighter than a horny rattlesnake.

"S-sure," he answered dazedly.

Billy grinned, they finished their drinks, and Dave, through sheer force of will, somehow got himself into a semi-controlled state again. He led Billy over to the table, introduced him to the Dodge City Gang, and then Billy had proceeded to beat every last one of them at the wildest game of poker the Center Street Saloon had ever seen.

They had drawn a crowd by the time the last desperate bet was placed, and when Billy laid down his three aces and two queens, Dutch and Jordy had leapt up, caterwauling like a couple of bad-tempered coyotes, while Dave and Bill just sat there dumbfounded, unable to believe that they'd lost their every penny to a goddamn teenager.

But Billy hadn't come there to take their money, as he quickly explained, trying to soothe the gang's ruffled feathers. He didn't need it. What he needed was volunteers for this rustling enterprise of his. Any takers?

The Dodge City boys said they would rather hang in hell than ride with a smug little shit like Henry McCarty, and Billy just shrugged, said fine, and prepared to go on his merry way.

Then Dave stood up and said, "I'll go with ya."

The gang was stunned, but only just; even a blind man could see that their boss was crazy in love with The Kid. He probably would have walked behind Billy's horse all the way to Fort Sumner just to prove it, too. Well, it wasn't as if any of the boys gave a shit about Dave anyway. They respected him, sure, but that didn't mean they liked him. Hell, most were afraid of him. With him out of the picture, it would be nice to have a proper leader again. One who didn't make bombs and fuck other men.

They said their short, gruff goodbyes at the saloon doors, then watched Dave follow Billy out into the dusty street like a happy puppy.

After the pair had mounted up and ridden off in the red-orange light of the New Mexican sunset, Bill had shaken his head and chuckled. He hoped The Kid would be able to find other uses for his new best friend. Dave Rudabaugh was one of the lousiest rustlers this side of the Mississippi.

* * *

><p>Fort Sumner was one of the few places in New Mexico where Dave had never been, mostly on account of its distance from the railroad and general lack of anything worth stealing. It was a shabby village, full of roaming, bleating goats and squawking chickens, but after a tedious three-day ride across some of the emptiest, most desolate land on God's baked red earth, even the washed-out clay huts were a welcome sight. Dave wasn't too keen on all the Mexicans, but if Billy didn't mind them, well, he supposed he could put up with them for a while.<p>

They had barely hitched their horses and refreshed themselves at the nearby well when Billy suddenly pulled his Colt from his holster and leveled it at Dave's chest.

"Inside," he said, tilting his head toward a small, two-storey building with the words _Méson El Viajeros_ painted on the side in peeling white letters.

Bewildered, Dave opened his mouth to ask what the hell was going on, but Billy cocked his pistol and grinned dangerously. "Don't talk. Walk. _Now_."

With Billy's gun prodding him encouragingly in the side, Dave stumbled into the building and discovered that it was some sort of boarding house for travelers. He had no idea what was going on—maybe the rustling business had all been a lie and Billy just wanted to rob Dave and murder him, earn a new nickname or something: Billy the Butcher, Bloody Bill Bonney, Dave didn't fucking know—all he knew was that he had a gun pointed at him by the most wanted man in the west and he was probably going to die when they got to wherever they were going in this place.

Billy corralled Dave up the stairs and into one of the empty rooms. It was tiny, barely big enough to hold a rickety old bed and a few beaten pieces of furniture. He shut the door behind him and ordered Dave to remove his gunbelt. Dave's fingers numbly went through the motions, slowly undoing the buckle and dragging the leather through.

"Look, if it's money you want, I got—"

"I said no talking," snapped Billy, then he added, "And I don't want no money. Now take off that knife. Coat too, while you're at it."

Dave swallowed dryly and obeyed, dropping his knife to the floor and then his sleeveless duster on top of it in a lumpy pile. He couldn't help but imagine that his own body would soon be lying in a pile on the floor as well.

And then, in another bewildering turn of events, Billy lifted his pistol off of Dave and uncocked the hammer, sliding the gun safely into its holster. "That's better," he said with a grin, taking off his belt and hanging it on a nearby chair.

"Wha-? What the hell was all that about?" Dave fumed, angry and humiliated that he'd allowed himself to be so frightened, so easily controlled. "Why'd you . . . what're ya tryin' to pull, you crazy sonof—"

Billy crossed the room in two strides and shoved Dave hard against the wall. He was stronger than he looked.

Then, suddenly, everything changed.

The breath was crushed out of Dave's chest as Billy pressed flush against him, everything from his thighs up touching everything of Dave's.

"I think three days is long enough," he murmured huskily. "Don't you, Dave?"

Oh. _Oh_, Christ. God Almighty, hell yes, three days was plenty long.

His fear now replaced by a searing, overpowering desire, Dave cupped the back of Billy's neck, pulled him forward, and kissed him. Chastely at first, then parting his lips and dipping his tongue into Billy's sweet little mouth. Billy kissed back with his whole body, pushing Dave into the wall until Dave thought he'd leave an imprint.

Damn, it had been a long time since he'd last kissed someone this way. Too long. And now this kid. This crazy, frightening, beautiful . . .

"Billy—" he panted hoarsely, and that was all he managed to get out.

_The remainder of this scene, while pertinent to the story, is too explicit for FFN's content policy and thus has been edited accordingly.  
>To read the unabridged version, please visit my profile page. Thanks! -HJB<em>

* * *

><p>José Chavez y Chavez sat in the dim, dingy tavern of the Tumble Inn, hunched over the bar, contemplating his reflection in his knife and tossing down the occasional shot of house liquor. It tasted bad enough that he didn't want to get drunk, but he wasn't quite sure he wanted to be sober, either. Feeling as if he'd soured his stomach enough for one night, he put away his knife, laid a few coins on the bar, and abandoned the smoky pub in favor of the cool night air.<p>

Outside on the veranda, he rolled a cigarette and struck a match with his thumbnail, cupping his hand around the small flame until the paper caught. He took a slow drag and sighed a thin blue-gray cloud.

An occasional smoker, Chavez usually saved his tobacco for times when whiskey wouldn't cut it and he needed something to soothe his nerves—or the bitter, fraying end of his last one. He tried to think about Albuquerque, the road out of it, how they'd be leaving and what they'd be leaving on. He tried to think about Colorado, Wyoming, Montana—Cheyenne country, turbulent Plains Indians land—and Canada. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't get the image of that water drop on Dave's lip out of his mind. It had been burned there like a flaming brand on a steer's flank; only this was one that never cooled down, never scarred, but continued to glow red, like the end of his cigarette.

Chavez suddenly lost the desire to smoke. He licked his fingers and pinched the burning tip until it went out, then tucked the cigarette safely into his pocket. He sighed and took a seat on one of the weather-beaten chairs, massaging his tired eyes and running a hand through his long hair. His fingers snagged in the knots. He'd have to comb it soon, maybe wear it braided for a while. It might help conceal his identity if anyone was looking for him, or for Doc. Or for . . . that other person. The one with green eyes and the broken heart

(_stop it it's not my fault_)

who was lying in bed upstairs, dying of sorrow or infection—one or the other, it was all the same thing—while Chavez sat here, impotent and helpless and repressed to the point of suffocating every emotion his heart was capable of feeling.

Other than hate, of course. Hate was his pillar. It was the bedrock of his very existence. It was as if he had been born pissed off and inconsolable, destined to wander through life spitting and snarling and hurling knives at any perceived threat. Anger was his oldest friend, vengeance his only comfort. And now the rage that defined him was slowly killing David James Rothenburg

(_no it isn't stop it damn it just stop_)

a man who wanted nothing more than to be loved.

Chavez gritted his teeth and pressed his fingertips hard into his temples. He could hear his pulse throbbing in his ears, could feel his blood pounding against his fingers in steady, warlike beats. Half of him wanted to go upstairs and put Dave out of his misery, quietly and mercifully, with a single bullet to the head. But the other half of him, the half that liked how it felt to sleep beside someone at night, how it felt to press a red bandanna against a face he had come to care about, wanted to drag a knife through the spineless piece of shit that had shot Dave back in Lincoln.

Lo and behold, Chavez discovered a bigger, uglier tree on which to sharpen his claws. Now his conflicted emotions were swimming with the current of his anger instead of against it, and they picked up speed as he imagined the violence and gore that would ensue if he ever got his hands on the bastard, the dead man, the sorry sonofabitch who had hurt Dave. Guts, blood, flashing steel, scalp peeling away from skull, ferocious howls, shrill, inhuman screams . . . It was a familiar relief, this fury, like coming home after a long, tiring journey. This terrible power was on his side again, only now it had a nobler purpose: defending Dave, protecting him, keeping him safe and alive.

As if a heavy burden had been suddenly lifted from his shoulders, Chavez sat up straight and took a deep breath.

Yes. He would look after Dave. He would help him get better, no matter how strong these strange, alien feelings of attraction got. He would punish anyone who wronged Dave, kill anyone who tried to hurt him. Maybe Dave would even let Chavez sleep beside him when he was well again, unless, of course, he didn't want—

Approaching voices interrupted Chavez's thoughts and he instinctively leaned back into the shadows of the veranda, going stock still as two large white men appeared. One seemed to be consoling the other, clapping him on the shoulder and offering to buy him a drink to make up for what had happened that afternoon.

"—no trouble of yours," the man was saying as they thudded heavily up the steps. "They're probably miles away by now, and if they ain't, then Marshal Yarberry'll get 'em, you can count on it . . ."

With a cold, sick blossom of recognition blooming in his stomach, Chavez saw that the second man, the larger of the two, had a knife-cut on his cheek, a broken nose, and a split lip: the handiwork of Chavez & Rudabaugh, Inc. It was the railworker from earlier that day. Chavez knew the man had gotten a good look at him during the fight, unless Doc's rifle had stolen any of his memory, and he sure as hell was bound to recognize Dave.

Chavez waited until the pair had disappeared through the doors before allowing himself to breathe again. He rose from his chair, his heart pounding and his mind spinning. This was not good. Apparently Mr Railman had already paid a visit to the marshal and passed on a description of his attackers, and now the only thing the three outlaws had going for them was the fact that nobody thought they were foolish enough to stick around town. Well, it seemed they were going to have to cut their stay short and get out while they still had a chance. But with Dave the way he was . . .

Clenching his fists in useless anger, Chavez cursed their poor luck and hoped that this was as bad as it could get. Anything worse would just be evidence of fate's cruelty. Well, if things didn't completely hit rock bottom tonight, maybe Railman and his buddy would leave the tavern before they got too drunk and talkative, especially with that shifty-eyed bartender around. Chavez reckoned he needed at least another day to rustle up some horses and get his friends the hell out of here, if they even had that much time.

Quietly muttering a curse, Chavez climbed over the rail and disappeared around the side of the building, into the cool shadows of the night.

If a way still existed—or a hope, or even the thinnest chance—he was going to find it.

* * *

><p><em><strong>The More You Know...<strong>_

_-Like his fictional counterpart, the real Dave Rudabaugh was born July 14, 1854._  
><em>-There actually was a saloon on Center Street in Las Vegas, NM. It was bought by Doc Holliday in 1879.<em>  
><em>-"Dirty Dave" is a widely-accepted nickname for the real Dave Rudabaugh, but, like "Arkansas", there is no evidence of Dave having ever gone by such a name.<em>  
><em>-Dave's fellow outlaws in this chapter are all based on actual members of the Dodge City Gang: William "Slapjack Bill" Nicholson, Dutch Henry Borne, Jordan ("Jordy") L. Webb, and even John "Bullshit Jack" Pierce.<em>_  
><em>


End file.
